Yesterday I was using my trusty binoculars to find out if old Mrs Valentine from number 53 had been stealing cuttings from my roses again, and was utterly shocked to witness her engaged in lewd activity with an unidentified gentleman, in full view of the cat. When I think of the horrors to which that poor animal has been exposed, I shudder. Should I call the RSPCA, the Police, or both?
Why not channel your energies into something more worthwhile? I recently started up my own publication: the Justin Bieber Fanzine. The production team consists of me; my Barbie who’s going bald; my goldfish, Derek; and that’s it. In the first edition, there’s a double page spread picture of his evil girlfriend Selena Gomez being stabbed to death in the face, done with my best crayons. Justin himself features in the picture, crying tears of joy. There’s not much else yet, but that’s because we were busy for a few days writing death threats to Caroline Flack. Now that’s done, I’ll start chasing Barbie for her feature on what Justin Bieber has for tea (he prefers waffles to potato smiles: who knew?) and I’ll be going over Derek’s piece on how many percent I love Justin Bieber’s hair. Unfortunately, since Derek fell down the back of the piano, his writing hasn’t been up to much, so I will probably have to edit quite heavily. It’s a shame because he’s a good journalist, even if he did listen to my big sister’s voicemail when she was in the shower that time.
Hope that helps!